The Case of the Stolen Statue
by jesusofsuburbia2o2o
Summary: But until then, you remain my bachelor." Holmes and Watson get involved in a case that Watson suspects he might have a hand in it? Why? Watson/Holmes slash. Summary may change.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello everyone! There was an issue here that I did that caused my chapter content to be replaced with that of another story I did. I don't even know if this is properly beta-read but it is the only copy I have of this chapter. Grrrr, I'm so sorry! Here's the proper first chapter, second will be uploaded shortly, and the third is being written and will be done within the next few days! Thank you! **

**By the way, I'm expecting this story to be done in six chapters. Just so you know :)**

I put my pen down onto my desk—which was one beautiful and clean, now with many unfortunate chemical burns amongst other discrepancies no doubt caused by my dearest friend, Sherlock Holmes.

I considered the two places in the house that were truly my own my bedroom and that desk. While I still had my bedroom to myself, the desk has become not entirely mine. The surface of it was not only covered with my rough drafts, pens, dictionaries, books, et cetera—it also had various knickknacks that were definitely Holmes'. I'm fairly sure that he's conducted many an experiment on my desk when I've been out, and I would rather not ask about it.

The detective was currently sitting on his preferred armchair by the fireplace, smoking his pipe. The dressing gown he donned was loose around him, revealing his dirty white shirt, unbuttoned twice. He smiled warmly at me. "Finished for the night, old boy?" he asked, tenor voice ringing out amongst the smoke and previous silence.

"With any luck, yes. You're quite hard to write, I'll have you know." My friend seemed to shrug, taking another drag on his tobacco and exhaling.

It was nearing six o'clock in the evening, the sun on the way to its descent. I stood up and walked to the door taking my good jacket off the coat rack, straightening my collar. Holmes glanced up in my direction and spoke with mild surprise. "Where are you going?"

Since it was Sherlock, I have no doubt that he knew exactly where I was going.

"Mary and I are going out tonight." No use lying. Besides, there wasn't anything I had to hide.

"Excellent," said he. "I'll be ready in a few moments." He stood and put out his pipe.

I sighed rather exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of my nose with two fingers. "Holmes, you are not attending my date." He simply smirked at me. "But I have nowhere to go, and I am rather famished. Dinner it is, then?"

He must take pleasure in my discomfort, for I swear that a vein burst in my temple and all Holmes did was borrow my only other good jacket. Without asking, I might add.

"You're ridiculous." I muttered darkly. Flinging his arm around my shoulders, he chuckled as the pair of us departed Baker Street. "This I know, my dear Watson."

I had to bite back my smile. I do not know why he's so easy to forgive. There was something about Holmes that drew me to his friendship, even though it could be said that I would live better without him being around. God knows I need less near-death situations to put myself in. The problem really was I _love _the thrill. I _love _serving justice. I'd sooner shave off my moustache before I would admit to this.

His arm had not left my shoulders, and it would seem that he pressed his side into my side, a refusal to let go, if I were going to bother telling him off, and I didn't.

We hailed a cab at the first sight of one. It was slightly cramped, and our legs were brushed together the entire silent ride to Mary's house.

We turned into the road where my dear Mary lived. I knocked on the door while Holmes seemed to petulantly wait by the cab. A nursemaid answered, and greeted me with an apology that Mary has fallen moderately ill. As a doctor, my interest piqued, but before I could even say so much as a word, Holmes was at my side, clearing his throat. "Yes, well, wouldn't want to delay her healing, now let's be on our way, dear boy."

He led—dragged—me away from the door. "The Royale is on the way—"

"Holmes, I have a feeling that you knew Mary was sick." I interrupted. "And that dinner with the two of us was merely a cover for you to have me on your own."

"Your skills of deduction increase daily." He replied lightly, not denying that in the very least. "I did in fact know she was sick considering the condition she was in the last time she visited Baker Street. I'm surprised you didn't catch onto that, _Doctor_."

I sighed once again. "I'm _marrying _her, Holmes. There is nothing you can do or say that can change the fact that I will be _leaving _you."

Perhaps I should have said it with more grace, but I know that Holmes needs to understand, rather sooner than later, that I am not going to always be his partner, his physician or his 'mother hen'. Perhaps _he _can see for himself as he and I are now. I certainly cannot. A life of danger and threat certainly satisfies me, but it can't for long. After all, I have a woman, a practice. I want a family, one that doesn't involve Holmes.

"Don't be stingy. Besides, you do not have a ring as of yet. The engagement you speak of is not official."

"The point is; it will be." I interrupted again.

"But as of today, you remain _my _bachelor."

I had to grin. "Indeed, your bachelor until merely months from now, where I will instead be Mary's husband, and your ex-flatmate."

Under his breath, I could have sworn that Holmes muttered something along the lines of 'that doesn't seem fair', but I probably imagined it.

When we were seated at the Royale, Holmes started conversation. "What appeals to you about being a husband of any variety?"

"You're not seriously asking me this question, are you?" I replied, a hint of distain in my tone. Holmes smirked amiably. "Is it perhaps her womanliness?" he teased.

As usual, I couldn't help grinning at him. "You tell me, oh genius detective." I looked at him expectantly as I raised my wineglass to my lips.

Holmes seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Why bother telling you what you already know? That would be counterproductive."

"I do not see how!" I exclaimed genially. "It would be the equivalent of me asking you about your infatuation with Miss Adler."

Holmes seemed to cringe. "Oh dear man, no need to bring_ her _into our decent conversation! Let me make this clear, I have no feelings harbored towards Irene in any form, save perhaps animosity." He added as an afterthought.

I shot him a smirk and a knowing look. "I can clearly see that this is not the case."

"You can even ask the woman, she would agree with me."

"Right. So Holmes—"

"So Watson," he cut across my speech. "I do believe that you are making a mistake in your marriage prospects."

"You've objected to every woman I've courted since I met you, and I am never given any sufficient reasons for your distaste." My eyes were alight with amusement.

"That's because I haven't given you the pleasure of naming any."

"I wonder why?" I challenged.

"Do you." He murmured offhandedly, refusing to take my bait.

"As my dearest friend, aren't you inclined to tell me?"

"Perhaps." He said, petulantly. I snapped my fingers. "I know why."

Holmes took a sip of his own wine. "Oh, do you?"

"You just don't like the thought of having me gone. I'm sure the mere thought drives you mad, and you take your need of a parenting and friend figure and somehow turn it into distaste to whoever comes close to me. How's _that _for deduction, Holmes?" I asked, satisfied.

"Almost correct. Nearly, for you are only a little bit off, and I am not going to correct you."

"You're being childish. Now humor me—what will you do without me, old cock?"

"Well, mother hen, there is many 'a thing that I can do, being alone. I wouldn't want a tragedy to occur because of my, ah, rather self-destructive habits—"

"You aren't threatening to over dose yourself on your damn seven-percent cocaine solution, are you?"

Holmes sighed melodramatically. "Without a doctor in the vicinity, who knows what could happen to me? I fear just thinking about it!"

"You and I both know that you are much too fond of yourself for such an inane act as suicide."

"Too right you are." He smirked. "Shall we head back to Baker Street, dear Watson?"

"I believe so." The both of us stood up and took our leave. "Si seulement vous savies c'est toi que j'implore." Holmes spoke, wistfully.

"You know I can't stand when you do that." I replied, smirking nonetheless. "Teach me some basic French sometime, Holmes, I implore it."

"Only if you prolong the engagement."

"No deal."

"I didn't think it would be," he said sadly.

Upon arriving back in Baker Street, I waited patiently until Holmes had removed my coat and shoes. I grabbed my medical bag, and my friend looked at me. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I have a sick soon-to-be-fiancé who needs tending to. Be sure not to commit suicide while I'm away, is that fair?" I grinned at him and tipped my hat. "Until later tonight, my good man."

Holmes' eyes narrowed, but he waved me off. "Indeed, tonight." When I shut the door behind me, I knew of two things. First, Holmes was going to be intoxicated with whatever substance when I returned, and that I would thoroughly enjoy being my Mary's dear presense.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey, this is the proper second chapter for The Case of the Stolen Statue. I just recently found out I fucked up somewhere and this might be resent to your inbox. If this is the case, my SINCEREST apologies, this is NOT a new chapter, just a re-uploaded second one. BUT NEVER FEAR. The third will be up within the next few days- that's a promise. Hold me to it.**

**Also, I fear, as I did with the first chapter, that this is not properly beta-read. It's the only copy I have of this story and I feel awful that there was a screw up somewhere. So, if there is magikkly bad grammer n'stuff, sorry. D:**

The Case of the Stolen Statue Chapter 2

I returned to 221b Baker Street later that day feeling satisfied that Mary was simply under the weather, as her maid had stated when we called; and by no means terribly sick. Holmes, however, was bound not to just be 'under the weather'—and more 'high as a kite'.

Indeed he was, I noted dully. He was reading through what looked like to be my manuscript due in only a mere few days, eyes glittering in a way that the eyes of a sober man never would. He occasionally twitched. The only conclusive solution was cocaine. An empty syringe next to a half-full bottle of liquid drugs cemented my conclusion.

"Hope you didn't catch a cold." He broke the silence first, speaking in his dry manner as his dilated pupils studied me.

"I'm just in complete gratitude that you, my dear friend, are still among the living!" I smirked at him as I hung my coat on the rack by the door, setting down my medical bag.

"No need for sarcasm, Watson."

"When it comes to you, there is always a great need for sarcasm."

"Only when I deem it necessary," Holmes put down the stack of print, changing the subject. "How is your soon-to-be-fiancé? I _do _hope she is well."

"I do not want to talk about this with you in your current state. Even when you are sober, you cannot talk about Mary with me without being petulant. Can we not discuss something without bringing up Mary, my marriage, or anything of the sort?" I prompted, crossing the room and sitting in my preferred armchair across from Holmes, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Why would you not want to discuss dear Miss Morstan with me?" He pretended to look offended.  
"I care deeply about her health."

"_Holmes_."

"Fair enough. I have a case."

My interest piqued. He saw, of course, those grey eyes focused on me with a form of mischievousness creeping into his smile.

"Who said I was going to tell you, Watson?"

"You insinuated you were about to. Tea?"

"No thank you, and indeed I did, but it just so happens there is no case, I am just soaking in as much of your reactions to what I say as possible because of our..." he sighed for a melodramatic effect. "Limited time together."

I grunted as a reply, but it only served to encourage Holmes.

"How will you be able to live without the danger, my dear Watson? Without either following my cases on foot or documenting them in those novels of yours? And of course, how will you manage without _me_?"

"Holmes," I turned to him after I put water on to boil. "If I can live rather peacefully, and I mean that in the loosest way possible, with you, I have no doubt in my head that I can live just as easily without you."

My friend looked like he was about to speak, but I didn't let him. "I will miss the chase and my 'bachelor' life, as you put it. Even so, it's time for me to settle down, raise a family and expand my practice. My years of war are behind me, and soon your cases shall be as well—but rest assured you are, and always will be, my one object of true admiration and my best friend. That being said, you are also my worst patient."

I gestured to his cocaine.

Holmes looked rather uneasy and didn't reply as the water came to a boil; I took the teapot off the stove and he still remained silent.

I waited.

"You're absolutely correct," Holmes hummed. "That _is _what every man wants, is it not? A beautiful wife, a successful business, precious children, perhaps a nice home. How could I begin to blame you for wanting—for you at any rate—what is attainable?"

I flushed slightly at the praise. "But you seem to blame me anyway."

The detective clicked his tongue. "Obviously."

He pointedly looked away as I glared at him.

"You are going to have to come out and tell me what is wrong eventually." I took a seat beside him after preparing my tea.

"Well," began Holmes, sighing heavily. "It's mostly about the timing, not necessarily the message itself."

"I see."

I was curious. As Irene was to Holmes, Holmes was _my _mystery. I have no doubt that I know Holmes better than anyone on earth, but I certainly knew him to only the extent that he wanted me to know.

It seems slightly unbalanced, since I believe he knew every facet of my personality after a month of sharing rent, be it what I told him or what he deduced by my actions.

Holmes is my personal mystery, wrapped in an interesting package with an extremely complex knot in the ribbon on top. Unraveling the string, even the slightest bit, revealed more about who my ridiculously- complicated best friend was. Every step closer to solving Sherlock Holmes put me in a great mood. I was itching for the ends of that string—when we would be equals in knowledge about the other.

Today, I wondered what he meant by his timing.

Mysteries are meant to be solved. I have a feeling that I'm not going to be able to leave Baker Street permanently without first solving Sherlock Holmes. I honestly could not have it otherwise, nor want it.

He was staring at me again, which is not an abnormality by any means. He was now looking slightly, if not completely, sobered—his eyes were still, however, dilated.

The detective looked like he was about to say something of the utmost importance. I leaned in on reflex, waiting for his baritone to break the silence.

221b was bathed in the dim glow of candlelight. The sun was in the process of setting—the sky an orange and pink canvas. Gladstone was lightly snoring on the rug near my armchair. Holmes' eyes were hypnotic, unblinking, as we looked at eachother.

In that moment, the two of us seemed almost intimate.

Whatever I had been waiting for him to say, it certainly was not what I heard. "Well," he began, standing up and drawing himself to full height and fully shattering the atmosphere in the process. "We had a pleasant chat. I do believe it's time for bed."

"You're not sleeping, you can't fool me," I deadpanned, shooting him a glare.

"I _do _fool you. Good night, parting is such sweet sorrow, and I say goodbye 'till it be morrow," He said enigmatically and rather sarcastically, standing and walking in the direction of the stairs.

"I'm not even bothering to ask what in God's name you mean by that," I muttered under my breath while he was still in earshot.

He just smiled.

Certainly as the sun rose that morning, Holmes' beloved Stradivarius lamented a beautiful, if haunted, tune until I felt my eyes close, and dreams of a perfect, tranquil domestic life filled my eyelids.

That certainly does not begin to explain why I woke up in a cold sweat, heart pounding as if I just had a terrible nightmare.

I registered Holmes at my side, holing my hand in an attempt to comfort me. His hand was surprisingly warm—whenever any part of me, be it shoulder, forearm, _fist_—contacted any part of Holmes, he was almost always cold.

"I came to borrow a book, and you looked agitated," he said quietly.

"Oh," I sat up slowly, not even questioning his antics. "I guess I was not aware that I was having a nightmare." My tone was soft—I was puzzled. "How peculiar."

Holmes did not let go of my hand, nor did I make a move to remove it from his grasp. I was breathing deeply, trying to stop my pulsing heart rate. Perhaps the only dream I remembered was my wedlock life and I had had a nightmare that I couldn't recall?

He moved closer to me, as if to deduce from my behavior what it was I dreamt. "What was the cause of your terror?"

I refused to tell him—the last thing I wanted was for him to tell me that my subconscious is actually not fond of the life I claim to want. If that was the dream I had woken fearfully up to at all—and it might not have been.

Holmes smiled at me. "I'm sure it's not so bad. Please do tell."

"I'm fine, I'm sure it doesn't matter."

"If you insist." He let go of my hand, which now felt a bit chilled. I put that hand under the blanket as I tried not to notice he was still _looking _at me.

My friend eventually stood. "My dear man, I will be downstairs. Feel free to recollect yourself and join me."

I needn't mention to him that according to the clock on my bedroom wall, it was quarter to five in the morning.

When he left, I sighed and stood up, sleep no longer being a priority. My thoughts were no longer on my eerily-perfect dream life, but on my friend. Why had he bothered to comfort me? When I had nightmares in the past, he never seemed to think anything of it, let alone know about them.

Sighing dejectedly, I tossed the blankets off of my person and stood, putting on my dressing gown before I went to the parlor.

Holmes was absently plucking a tune on the violin that sounded an awful lot like whatever he had played last night.

"Did you rest well?" I asked Holmes, wearily sitting beside him in the armchair by the fireplace.

He shrugged. "I certainly did not sleep for an extended period of time, if that's what you mean."

_Neither did I._ I thought. "And why is that? Were you watching me sleep for a majority of the night?"

"Well, not the majority."

Before I could interrupt him, Holmes continued speaking. "I must say, I was worried about you. Did you catch something when you visited Mary?"

"It is a possibility, I haven't thought of it. It's _early_," I muttered, watching Holmes light his pipe.

"It seems as though you were at her place of residence longer than you should have been, considering she was only 'moderately ill'." His tone was slightly accusatory.

"What _are _you insinuating?"

"Nothing." He tried to sound innocent, and failed at it miserably. "You're not supposed to make social calls to people who are ill. I can only imagine what you must have been doing to get sick from your… fiancé." His eyes were full of mischief as he inhaled his tobacco, and I did not like that look one bit.

I refused to encourage him, but God knows I probably did anyway. "Whatever you are thinking, I can assure you it did not happen."

"You still have lipstick on your upper lip, I meant to tell you that last night. It must have slipped my mind," drawled Holmes.

Self-consciously, I rubbed it off. "Well… whatever _else _you were thinking," I replied demurely.

He laughed. "Scandalous."

I leered at him, smacking him on the back of the head.

The two of us ate breakfast in a very bright mood, considering what had happened earlier that day. When we were finished, Holmes grabbed the newspaper, and I continued working on my manuscript. I kept stealing glances at Holmes. I couldn't help but to notice it looked as if he had something to hide.

What else was new? Recently, he seemed to be hiding something big, dropping hints about something that he was acting like I should know, but have either turned a blind eye to…or am apparently too slow-minded to have taken note of.

For an hour or two I worked, Holmes occasionally saying something to start a conversation, but he eventually gave up when he realized I was too busy to give him an answer.

"We should go to the opera tonight," my friend suggested airily as he sensed that I was nearing completion with what I wanted to get done with of my manuscript by today.

"Alright then," I agreed, putting down my pen. "What is showing?"

"Otello by Giuseppe Verdi—I've heard great things about it. In two hours."

I nodded again, smiling faintly. "I suppose _I _shouldn't invite Mary, I don't want people getting sick, or her contracting something worse."

Dear Holmes hardly let me finish before exclaiming an 'excellent' and looking happy about it.

The evening was pleasant, starting with taking a cab down to the theatre and opera house and being seated. We seemed to be almost entirely alone. For some reason, Holmes was a few pounds short—he must have tipped the usher; they were the best seats we had ever had.

The Italian opera took off beautifully. It wasn't particularly long, only about two hours.

The outing ended well. Holmes was in a good mood that rubbed off onto myself, as his good moods generally do. He and I were both slightly intoxicated by the champagne we consumed at the theatre.

Night had fallen. Very little activity was going on now, or so I initially thought. Holmes and I chatted meaninglessly when we arrived back in Baker Street until the sound of a frenzied knock was heard from our door.

Holmes casually sat in his armchair by the fire when I opened the door to find a distraught Lestrade.

"What brings you here at this hour?" drawled Holmes, looking at him rather boredly. "Something is clearly the matter."

Lestrade and I ignored him. In a shaky voice, not one of fear—but one of rage—spoke.

"I've been framed in a theft, Holmes."

Holmes now looked marginally more interested than he had merely moments before. "And how did you get yourself in _that _predicament?" he chuckled maliciously.

I apologized on account of my friend as I did on more occasions than I did not. He continued, now sounding business-like.

"What was stolen?"

Lestrade spoke warily. "In the Victoria and Albert museum in London was a prized statue of Lakshimi, the Hindu goddess of love, relationships, fertility and the like," he gesticulated. "It was made of solid gold, about a foot tall, embedded with sapphires and diamonds. I was tipped off prior to the actual theft itself, so when I arrived at the time of specification and not a moment more or less… alone, as the thief had requested…"

Lestrade looked uncomfortable now. Holmes was scrutinizing him, belittling and thinking him dense. He used that look on a lot of (what could be considered as) his peers. It showed more than anything that he was the true superior, that the name Sherlock Holmes was infinitely more important than any given title.

Even with Holmes glaring at him, the Inspector continued his anecdote.

"It did not take two minutes for the thief to snatch the statue when I had presently been in the room. A loose gem—a sapphire—had fallen to the floor and just as I picked it up, the rest of Scotland Yard came in, tipped off about the robbery as well, but five minutes after when my own tip-off was. I'm under suspicion of at the _very _least assist of robbery."

As I was about to apologize for his misfortune, Holmes decided to interject. "Did you get a good view of the _real _thief?" He sounded oddly rehearsed, bored yet again.

I looked at him. "Surely you have an idea on who might it be?"

When Lestrade looked at him expectantly, Holmes sighed dramatically.

"Of course I know, I knew immediately. Thieves; well—intelligent ones—have a certain style about them. Stealing an idol of love, relationships, and what was the last? Fertility? Yes: it seems like something Miss Adler would do—make a statement. It was a well-known statue."

Holmes slowly turned to me, bright mischief in his grey eyes. "It's almost ironic, no?"

"What's ironic?"

"Well, you plan on proposing to Mary, and a relationship totem is stolen." He picked a fingernail. When did he pick up _that _habit? "It's almost funny."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "If I may interrupt, we require you to find Miss Adler and prove my innocence."

"It can be done," Holmes replied dryly. "Will you now be on your way?"

I'm sure Lestrade would have been offended by his bluntness had he not been the subject of Holmes' behavior before.

"Indeed." He abruptly stood.

Holmes remained sitting while I escorted Lestrade to the door. When he and I said goodbye, Holmes turned to me.

"Surely you find this situation most humorous? I've been noticing your lack of gambling as of late, plus the working extra hours in your practice when it was not required of you, asking _me _to cover rent this month, and you going to shop without bringing home anything… You are in the market for an engagement ring, are you not?" Holmes asked, a tiny hint of annoyance with the inflection of his words.

Not even subtleties got past him. I nodded once, and looked away. "Yes, in short, I am planning on proposing to Mary soon."

"When?" asked Holmes tartly.

I looked back at him to stare accusingly.

"Any reason for your animosity? Also, _isn't it funny _that around the time you sensed—sorry, _deduced_—my plans for engagement, this symbolic statue is stolen. Also, I found it funny when I stated that you seemed to have an inclination whom the culprit was and you jumped immediately to the conclusion of Irene Adler, when it could have easily been someone you've been known to _not _be in cohorts with. Also, I know you like getting the better of Lestrade. It seems oddly convenient to me. I only wish for your motive."

Holmes looked genuinely speechless, completely in shock. This was not an expression oft seen on him, which pleased me. "You believe _me_, of all people, to be in on this crime?"

"All I'm remarking on is the convenience," I replied airily, crossing my arms.

"I am assuredly _not _involved with the other side of the law. It is absolutely ridiculous of you to even mention."

"You're the one doing the mentioning."

Both me and Holmes seemed to be getting steadily angrier, the silence of the room drastically different from the shouting that had just been going on. Or the near-shouting.

Holmes continued to speak, jaw set firmly. "I have not met with the woman since the Blackwood case, though I imagine I shall be seeing her again soon with this _Professor_ Moriarty, and I have no desire to do so. I would _never _intentionally seek her out just to make a statement about your, ah, _betrothal. _You need to be less self-absorbed."

"So it's not about the accusations, it's about Mary." I shot back.

"Perhaps, perhaps not." His tone was infuriatingly nonchalant.

"You just don't want to see me gone." My arms crossed themselves stubbornly.

"Correct. Your point?" Holmes asked dully, picking a fingernail again. Had he actually shown he was affected, I would have felt a trace of compassion.

Then I came to a small, but significant, epiphany. I cannot be his human comfort anymore. While I have always been in his presence as his companion and friend, there would come a time in the foreseeable future when being his 'mother hen' as he so _kindly _stated once would no longer be my duty.

Holmes is definitely not a child, and he probably wasn't a child when he was of the age of being one. I do not need to treat him as such, even when occasionally his emotions and habits render him volatile.

Eventually, I replied. "I have to leave, you know."

He did not answer me, not seeing the need to do so. When Holmes wasn't acting like a spoilt brat and more of a friend, or when he truly needed my opinion to solve a case—it was instances like those that had me wanting to stay, to prolong my soon-to-be engagement.

Holmes' tone was soft, and possibly heartfelt. "You don't."

My tone softened—an apology on both sides for shouting not minutes earlier. "I do."

"You don't have to be married yet."

"I want to."

Holmes sighed, walking from where he stood to where he kept his violin case.

I listened raptly as his melody soothed our angered spirits, the notes he played expertly the only thing that dwelled in my mind. I felt myself falling rather sleepy (having been awoken much earlier than I would have liked to be), and excused myself to bed. Holmes didn't acknowledge my departure.

The singing of the violin remained in my ears until the very minute whence my eyes closed.

I knew Holmes played well into the dawn, for my dreams were filled with the hope that came after a long and destructive thunderstorm, coupled with the emptiness of a once raging fire. In the midst of all the rubble and smoke was my friend, Sherlock Holmes, smiling as though he knew all was going to end in triumph for good, looking at me with the gaze he gave me when I knew that I could trust him with my life. The only sound that could be heard for miles was his violin. In the greater span of things, it felt like he and I were the only things that mattered.

And in that dream, I could look at my dearest friend and know that all that was going to be as his look and smile assured me.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: OMG. OMG. I AM SO SORRY. LEGIT. MY BAD. Please read my rant at the bottom? I don't want to start off with excuses, so read 'em at the end!**

**Thank you, and here's my chapter 3! Thank you to my dearest RobinRocks for betareading this.**

Chapter 3

That next morning, Holmes and I went to the scene of the crime. He was in a mood—one that he didn'tfrequently have, if at all. It was a good mood and I liked it, although it would be a complete falsehood to assume that I was still a bit angry over the events following Inspector Lestrade's visit. For unfathomable reasons I could not remain _angry _at him, per se; the fact is that although I was unbelievably peeved at the thought of his scheming since before yesterday, I would have scoffed in the face of someone who told me that he was on the other side of the law.

Holmes was behaving normally. Not normally for him— since my vision of normal was now permanently skewed after being in his presence ad under his influence for so long—but normal for a person in everyday polite society. For example; he did not borrow my clothing without asking (though he did ask and when I said no, he did not protest), eat like a madman, stare at me though I had been doing absolutely nothing to be suspicious of, play the violin at ungodly hours (and it some serious convincing from me that seven o'clock and earlier was considered ungodly—for he was a light, infrequent sleeper and I was not one for the mornings) or whatever else it is Sherlock Holmes did as a person that I would not expect from any other human being.

However, as much as I appreciated his not angering me on purpose— it felt off. That was the extent of the severe psychological trauma that I must have developed over time with his friendship. I was so unused to normalcy to the point, that when it returned, it startled me.

That afternoon, Holmes and I were going to the scene of the crime to check to see if it was indeed Irene Adler that we should be chasing after instead of some other nameless female thief; assuming, of course, that the suspect was female according to our witness, Lestrade. Holmes had told me that should we have evidence that it was Adler who stole the statue, we would have to search for her. He did not have high hopes regarding that, since she was as masterful at escape as Holmes was at capture.

His low expectations were out-of-character and quite a surprise. He _never _assumed that the criminal would get away, forcing me to consider again if indeed they were in cahoots. I kept his pessimism in mind.

Holmes shrugged on his jacket, looking at me expectantly.

"Shall I call for a cab?"

"Indeed, thank you." I nodded, finishing up my coffee from our breakfast. He left the room, shutting the door behind him with a click.

I departed the room a few minutes thereafter, not before making sure Holmes didn't leave the stove on.

He was standing out on the street, hailing the cab. He turned to me and smiled broadly.

"I suppose it was only a matter of time before our Inspector got himself into a predicament like this."

I couldn't help returning his smile.

"Well, you know how bright he is."

Holmes snorted and we climbed into the cab. I looked in his direction but he would not meet my gaze.

"Say it _is _Adler," I began, shifting the weight from my bad leg to the other. He looked up at me, gesturing for me to continue.

"How exactly will you go about finding her? She escapes you time after time; and you know as well as I do that you're not going to be able to get her even if you are able to retrieve the object."

Holmes groaned.

"No, no, no. I've never once had to go out and arrest her. Now that I might very well have to, you can be assured I will not stop until I do."

I scoffed, looking at him seriously.

"Quite,"

The detective crossed his arms, returning his attention back outside the window to downtown London.

"You're awfully pessimistic today, despite my best efforts."

His offense was almost funny and I cracked a smile that he returned.

It took the two of us another fifteen minutes to get to the Victoria and Albert Museum. Lestrade was waiting for us at the entrance, looking rather antsy as he fiddled with his fingers. Holmes just walked past him with purpose, gesturing for Lestrade and myself to follow.

Holmes asked the Inspector a series of questions that he had not asked the previous night when he first came for our aid. I was listening vaguely, thinking of the story I would inevitably write as a result of this case and how Adler would escape his clutches, assuming of course that the robbery wasn't his doing to keep me from my lovely and still slightly ill fiancée.

Speaking of Mary, I felt the strong urge to go see her, if only just to see if she was doing fine. Perhaps I would go after Holmes did his detective work, though it would definitely put him in a black mood. At the same time, whom to go to should be an obvious choice. Logically, I should choose to visit Mary. She is my fiancée, as I have stated many times, and she could still be ill. Holmes liked making that choice difficult.

Holmes' voice snapped me out of my musings. We were obviously in the room in where the statue had been stolen, for it did not take a man of Holmes' caliber to notice that there was a stand in the focal point in the room with nothing on it—the perfect size for a statue that could only be about ten centimeters tall and about six wide.

"Watson," Holmes called. "Care to hand me my magnifying glass?"

I knew he'd forget it. Sighing, I reached into my jacket pocket and withdrew it, handing it to him.

"Did you see something that could incriminate Adler?" I asked as I looked over his shoulder to see what had grabbed his attention. Lestrade, by this point, had been rather rudely shooed off the premises by Holmes, who apparently insisted that since Lestrade was the accused, it would be against his morals to let him near the crime scene.

"I might have, indeed," he replied, looking at the podium where the statue had been placed. Squinting, he peered into the glass, before smirking. "Aha."

Holmes produced one single, curly strand of brunette hair and held it between his fingers.

"Observe,"

I looked at the hair and slowly—obvious enough so that Holmes could catch it, looked to the top of _his _head suspiciously.

He had the gall to bark a laugh. "Oh, Watson, this isn't my hair. Look at it more closely. It is a different shade of brown and the curl is more heavily pronounced. My hair is starting to be a lot more _grey _than brown. You will recall, also, that I have an alibi. I was with _you _at the time of the theft."

I was reluctant to admit, but he was correct. Holmes handed back to me the magnifying glass and went to observe the base of the podium.

Immediately after I wordlessly accused him, I felt a wave of guilt hit my stomach. Did I _want _my friend to be guilty? It was rather horrid of me in all actuality and I wanted to apologize for it. Then I remembered that he was making the remarks about _irony_ and decided just to be spiteful and just go on.

It was Holmes' fault, and only his, that he disliked my Mary Morstan. I am sure he could have appreciated and liked her if she _wasn't _my fiancée. He was a selfish man, that Holmes. I knew it from the beginning and didn't even expect to stay so long with him in his—our apartment at 221B. As much as I wanted to in the beginning, I just could not bring myself to leave.

A wave of nostalgia made me smile for little reason. When we had met and moved in together, despite his quirks that normally would have clashed not-so-brilliantly with my ways of doing things, I regarded him as a god amongst men. His intelligence and brilliance could not be given any more justice than that.

If I do remember correctly, for it had been _years _ago (my published work _A Study in Scarlet _gives more information about my next point),I had thought that Holmes' 'powers', for lack of a better or more fitting term, were just as incredible as his limits. Essentially, Holmes would cast aside any information that had little to do with his detective work or knowledge of chemistry. I was shocked initially but Holmes is unlike any man I have ever met. More of a _machine _in regards to his limits and powers, in fact.

I studied him as he scrutinized the scene, slowly coming out of my reverie. He was whistling; a habit that he took up occasionally.

He is a man, not a machine. Other than what he absolutely needs to think, there always has to be something on his mind that Holmes might not want but be unable and reluctantly unwilling to cast away. Perhaps was it thoughts of his Adler? Or was there a person he had to whom I had not been introduced?

I am a romantic by nature so I assume the only thoughts in Holmes' head that keep his heart beating and brain pulsing as opposed to the cold, level indifference of a machine would be something as silly to him as love or affection.

Even if not, it did make me smile to think that there might be a person in Holmes' life that makes the everyday world seem bearable at the worst of times.

I always had thought that perhaps there was another reason why we seemed like we could not live with each other and were unable to live without each other than factoring in that we are and always will be the best of friends.

Absently, I looked down to where he was crouched next to the podium and just spoke aloud a thought that had just taken me and I felt a bit awful for not thinking of it sooner.

"I am going to check on Mary today."

His eyes narrowed and he pulled a brief look of contempt that lasted only for a moment before turning to face me, his face now showing the epitome of amicability.

"May I inquire as to when?"

"Whenever we are finished here for today, I suppose. Shall we have the midday meal together? I can visit her afterwards."

His face showed nonchalance but his brown eyes sparkled with what could only be delight.

"That sounds perfectly fine to me. Think of where you would like to go and we shall."

I smiled at him genuinely to see him in such a bright mood again after losing it for that brief second when I had brought up Mary Morstan.

"Do you smell something?" Holmes asked suddenly, nose in the air in the way that reminded me endearingly of a bloodhound.

"No," I replied honestly, looking at him curiously. "Do you?"

"I smell the woman's Parisian perfume. You'd _think_ she wouldn't leave a trace so obvious behind, especially since it has been a day…" he continued muttering to himself, cursing her nature and, knowing him, probably all of womankind.

I just laughed and rolled my eyes.

_Oh Holmes. _

"I believe there is a very high possibility that she _wants _you to find her."

The detective snorted and brushed off the comment with a wave of his right hand.

"Ridiculous."

"Not so!" I disagreed, playfully smiling. "She quite likes you, does she not?"

Holmes gave a non-committal noise from the back of his pale throat.

"You cannot disagree, at any rate." I said.

"I can, even if it's only for the sake of disagreeing with you. I do not do it often but it isn't often I argue with you over matters of _the_ woman."

I laughed.

"Prove the hair isn't yours?"

"It isn't," He cleared his throat, looking faintly disconcerted. "I think I'm done here for the day. Shall we go to the lunch I promised?"

I checked my pocket watch for the time. It was only past one in the afternoon, and though I could have definitely spent two hours with Holmes, it was Mary who needed me right now.

"I am afraid I can't attend lunch with you after all." I shook my head, apologizing to him with my eyes. "If Mary feels well enough to not need me, I should be back at Baker Street before two," I hastened to assure him after he looked disappointed once again.

I shouldn't have felt like an antagonist, but I did.

He cleared his throat for the second time.

"I understand. I shall see you in a few hours?"

"Yes—unless, that is, Mary wishes for me to stay at her side. If that is the case, it is likely that I shall not return home until late tonight."

"You shouldn't spend so much time around ill people," he admonished me gently, letting a reluctant smile show on his lips.

"Then you should have talked me out of becoming a doctor."

Tipping my hat and smirking in his direction, I turned and walked out of the museum, not without looking at the other statues of Hindu gods and goddesses since I was there anyway and it was a rare occurrence when I went to museums.

In a normal circumstance, Holmes would have quite the trouble getting me out of the house to go to a museum. I usually find them to be on the dull side—the Bohemian, artistic blood runs through Holmes' veins, not mine—but it was difficult to not admire the craftsmanship of the statues.

Of the vast amount of statues of metals of varying value, I had learned one thing. There were eight forms of the goddess Laksmi, a facet of whom was stolen (allegedly) by Irene Adler.

If it were not that my love life was brought under scrutiny and not some other fellows', I would have agreed with Holmes about the irony of the _one _statue being stolen—one representing love, marriage, and the like.

However, I think it was a cruel joke, and _not _irony, that I hadn't been able to give much thought to obtaining the perfect ring for Mary or even giving her much thought at all in the past few days. Holmes took that limelight and for what?

Holmes' happiness—or at the very least, his contentedness—was_ that_ the primary thought on my mind right now?

I wouldn't lie to myself and say that my happiness and Holmes' happiness were two completely separate entities, where one can't interact with the other in any way, shape or form. No, when he was happy, I tended to also be happy. His black mood was almost as contagious as his glad one.

In that case, I am not unhappy at this moment in time. I could be happier—meaning, Mary could be well.

I am as happy around Holmes as I am around Mary.

Holmes might even argue that my wanting to leave, my _wanting _to be engaged, is the single cause for our discord. We never (well, rarely) argued before women came into our picture.

The only difference is a simple one: I am in love with Mary.

Sighing heavily, I hastened to exit the Victoria and Albert Museum, hailing a cab and heading to Mary's home, unwanted thoughts ringing through my head.

If I was as content with Holmes as I am with Mary…

I laughed aloud to myself. That isn't quite right at all. I was not in the middle of having doubts about my relationship with Mary—in fact, once she is returned to her full health, I was going to make sure I found the most perfect engagement ring.

After all, just because I was going to be married to Mary—it doesn't mean for a second that Holmes and I were breaking up our bond of friendship.

I would make sure that being Mary's husband and being Holmes' friend could be completely possible—in fact, easy.

_Holmes, as much as I admire and to many extents adore you, I can't be a bachelor my whole life._

_

* * *

_**A/N: Again, I'm sorry. This was supposed to be out MONTHS ago. I SWEAR ON MY MOTHER'S GRAVE (she isn't dead yet, actually) that the next one will be soon. I won't lie, I did have a bit of a writer's block, but I plotted out the rest of this story and I'm talking to RobinRocks about what I should do exactly with the actual bits of slash.**

**Never EVER think I'm abandoning this little gem :) I like it too much! I have started school and it is killing me, so updates (again) will be infrequent, BUT THEY WILL HAPPEN. I PROMISE.**

**By the way, expect 7-8 chapters. Yeah. So.**

**If I can shamelessly plug *ahem* I've got a Sherlock Holmes / Iron Man crossover on my page, if you like Holmes and Iron Man put together (and slash and crack) PLEASE check it out!**

**Okay, Audilee out. XD**


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